Jul 2012
Amongst the still and silent plains
He wonders, traveling the fields of green.
He loses a little, every which way
Until he chances upon the bay-
A tribute to Mother Nature’s parade:
That tossed and turned and glimmering bay-
Here he travels every day.
Into the bay and onto the waters
He had sat upon a swimming boat
With wind to the hair and salt to the throat
Out on the seething, white capped fray.
This is how he was led astray.
Here he travels every day.
Then up and came the bitter storm,
And from it sliding waves took form,
And from it man and boat were born
Away from close and comfort shore
Onto another, strange and stranger more.
And here on foreign land and shore
Is a factory that stands ‘til close of day.
This is where the souls are made.
To the factory goes the man.
The walls are felt- there is a hum!
Of slow robotic delirium-
For eternity would make you wish to run.
Yet set in solid stone it is,
And set in solid stone is done
The Trade: of unseen things to souls;
Souls the result of unseen Trade; and
This is where the souls are made.
Inside the factory the man does go;
And inside, the man does see
The whole of it- it’s quite empty.
Yet creating life for eternity:
The moving parts of the factory.
Invisible to he, for he cannot see
Invisible things and invisible deeds.
For all of life, it finds a way, for
This is where the souls are made.
The whole of the lifeless building he explored,
And found he not but rusted machines galore.
Inside, finally, his emptiness did implode.
These things around him must explode.
How could he know? What thoughts could lead the way
For him to mutter, shout, and say: “Why
This is where the souls are made”?
In this place he thought abandoned
The man let go his demons rampant.
Smashing cogs with metal rod,
Turning machines to dust and fog,
Laying to waste, thus stemming the draught
Of aggression, against which all men have fought.
So from blindness and matched oblivion
He destroyed that place where all life began:
The Factory of Souls, now Graveyard to Many;
*This is where the future dies.
He wonders, traveling the fields of green.
He loses a little, every which way
Until he chances upon the bay-
A tribute to Mother Nature’s parade:
That tossed and turned and glimmering bay-
Here he travels every day.
Into the bay and onto the waters
He had sat upon a swimming boat
With wind to the hair and salt to the throat
Out on the seething, white capped fray.
This is how he was led astray.
Here he travels every day.
Then up and came the bitter storm,
And from it sliding waves took form,
And from it man and boat were born
Away from close and comfort shore
Onto another, strange and stranger more.
And here on foreign land and shore
Is a factory that stands ‘til close of day.
This is where the souls are made.
To the factory goes the man.
The walls are felt- there is a hum!
Of slow robotic delirium-
For eternity would make you wish to run.
Yet set in solid stone it is,
And set in solid stone is done
The Trade: of unseen things to souls;
Souls the result of unseen Trade; and
This is where the souls are made.
Inside the factory the man does go;
And inside, the man does see
The whole of it- it’s quite empty.
Yet creating life for eternity:
The moving parts of the factory.
Invisible to he, for he cannot see
Invisible things and invisible deeds.
For all of life, it finds a way, for
This is where the souls are made.
The whole of the lifeless building he explored,
And found he not but rusted machines galore.
Inside, finally, his emptiness did implode.
These things around him must explode.
How could he know? What thoughts could lead the way
For him to mutter, shout, and say: “Why
This is where the souls are made”?
In this place he thought abandoned
The man let go his demons rampant.
Smashing cogs with metal rod,
Turning machines to dust and fog,
Laying to waste, thus stemming the draught
Of aggression, against which all men have fought.
So from blindness and matched oblivion
He destroyed that place where all life began:
The Factory of Souls, now Graveyard to Many;
*This is where the future dies.
